Let It Be Christmas Read online

  And his lips were full and sensual looking. Sculpted like the Greek gods she'd studied in school, his mouth both enhanced and softened the bold masculine planes of his face. A raven lock of hair curled over his forehead, lending an unexpected boyish appeal to his features.

  “Lindsay, may we be seated?” Chad asked.

  His question jolted her. She had been staring. Heaven help her, with her mouth hanging open. She closed her mouth with a snap and tried to make an eloquent gesture with her hand, indicating the other two place settings.

  Wetting her dry lips with her tongue, she said, “Please, sit where you like.”

  She tried to cover her nervousness by focusing on the meal, and she started passing the bowls and platters before the two men were settled, urging them, “Please, help yourselves.”

  Chad shot her a look and sat down quickly, taking the proffered platter from her trembling hands before he pulled his chair under the table.

  Silently, she thanked her brother. She couldn’t help but steal a glance at Bart from the corner of her eye. But he appeared to be blissfully unaware of anything odd. He was taking his time, settling into his chair and unfolding his napkin.

  In point of fact, he seemed completely unaware of her.

  And for some strange reason—Bart’s indifference hurt more than when Seamus had deserted her.

  Chapter Two

  Chad took a helping from the platter and passed it to Bart. “Lindsay talked me into slaughtering a lamb for tonight. She says we should learn to eat mutton because we grow our own.” He shrugged. “Our sheep are wool producers, but I’ll try anything once. I hope you like mutton. My sister prepared the meal from a recipe she learned in Boston.”

  With her brother’s complimentary words ringing in her ears, she managed to recover some of her aplomb. Crossing herself, she said, “I’ve been remiss, gentlemen, before we eat, would you please say grace, Chad?” She bowed her head.

  Chad lowered his head, mouthing a quick prayer, thanking God for the bounty he’d provided. Everyone said “amen” and raised their heads.

  Lindsay watched as her brother tried to cut his meat. What if the mutton was scorched? She tended to overcook meat on the outside while leaving it raw on the inside. And why had she allowed Bart’s presence to upset her so much she hadn’t properly checked the meal?

  Again, it was too late.

  Bart was cutting into the meat, too. “It’s been some time since I was in the East, but I remember dining on some excellent lamb. I’m looking forward to sampling your cooking, Miss MacKillian.” He raised his head and glanced at Lindsay. His lips curled into a polite smile, making his handsome face even more appealing.

  Lindsay’s face felt frozen at the thought that this man—Bart—would be comparing her cooking with other mutton dishes he’d sampled back East. She squeezed out a tiny smile and waved her hand in dismissal.

  She certainly hoped she wouldn’t have to cook when she became a nun. She knew the sisters all had jobs to do in the Boston convent she’d attended for her theology classes, but with her finishing school education, she hoped they’d let her teach. Not cook.

  “It’s just simple food, Mr. Houghton. I can’t hope to compare with fancy hotels or restaurants you might have—”

  “Did I mention I’d dined on mutton in fancy hotels or restaurants, Miss MacKillian?” His question was softly spoken but carried an unmistakable challenge, and his blue eyes seemed to see right through her.

  “No, but I assumed that…”

  Chad cleared his throat and said, “Let’s eat. I’m starving. We can continue our conversation while we eat.”

  Lindsay and Bart nodded in unison. And the three of them cut into their meat and took a taste of the vegetables, except Lindsay didn’t really taste her meal. She was too afraid of what she’d find; instead, she sawed at the mutton and pushed the mushy potatoes and vegetables around her plate.

  And if she was a proper hostess, she should be making brilliant forays at polite conversation, but her mind was like a lake of quicksand, ideas bubbled to the surface only to sink again. She had a million questions, but when directed at Bart, they seemed strangely intimate to ask.

  “Pardon my reach.” Bart stretched his hand toward the loaf of bread.

  Lindsay nodded and smiled.

  And she couldn't fail to notice his fingers as he helped himself to a slice of bread. They were long and tapered, the nails clean and rounded. The hands of a gentleman, but something more, too. She had experienced their tensile strength and rough surface when he’d held her hand. They were the hands of a man.

  Chad cleared his throat again, startling Lindsay from her study of Bart’s hands. She dropped her head and vowed to stop staring at him. She must carry off this supper for her brother’s sake.

  She searched for something innocuous to say but before she could open her mouth, Chad resuscitated the lagging conversation. “Bart is from the South. You might have noticed his accent, Lindsay.”

  She swallowed a bite of parsley steamed potatoes. “Yes, I noticed.” She turned toward Bart, but was careful to stare at the pearl buttons of his vest.

  If she could manage to avoid looking at his face, or any other part of him, she might be able to sustain an intelligent conversation.

  “What part of the South are you from, Mr. Houghton?”

  “Please call me Bart, Miss MacKillian.”

  “But you called me Miss MacKillian,” she pointed out.

  “Gentlemanly courtesy. Though, if you call me by my given name, I’ll call you Lindsay.”

  She refused to rise to his challenge. “So, what part of the South are you from?”

  “I'm from Alabama, born and bred.”

  “But he's traveled all over the West for many years,” Chad said.

  “How interesting. In what capacity have you undertaken your travels, Bartholomew?”

  “Bart, not Bartholomew,” he corrected. “Are you inquiring after my profession, Miss Lindsay?”

  Chad rolled his eyes. She was surprised by her brother’s reaction. After all, she was only trying to make conversation. What could be wrong with asking the man’s profession?

  “I am… was… a professional gambler,” Bart said.

  She gulped and gazed directly at Bart’s face, despite her best intentions.

  Having taken her first bite of the mutton, it was as she’d feared, raw on the inside and burned on the outside. Almost choking on her failed experiment, she was aghast to learn this unsettling man—this stranger—this Bart—was a professional gambler.

  She hated gamblers!

  Gambling was a sin and a disease. Almost as bad as the sin she’d committed… or maybe, even worse.

  Seamus’ family had been wealthy, at one time, but her Aunt Minnie’s investigator had learned he’d gambled the family fortune away—all before he’d turned thirty-five years old. If not for gambling, she might be married and settled in a big house in Boston, counting the months until she birthed a healthy son for her once-upon-a-time fiancé.

  But after knowing her in the most intimate of ways, when Seamus’ failed fortunes were uncovered, he’d fled. But if her aunt had known she was pregnant, she would have forced them to marry and given Seamus her inheritance.

  After all, that was what he’d been after. And then like Abby’s first disastrous marriage, she’d be shackled to a man who didn’t love her, who only wanted her for money. She’d thought long and hard about her choices before returning home. And really, she’d had no other choice.

  “Forgive my sister’s startled reaction, Bart. She’s been delicately reared by our widowed aunt in Boston,” Chad explained.

  Turning to Lindsay, her brother clarified, “Bart says he’s a professional gambler. But he no longer pursues the profession. He’s in Langtry to find an investment to suit his future plans.”

  “How commendable,” she said, but she couldn’t keep the note of sarcasm from her voice.


  And her sarcasm wasn’t lost on Bart. “I hope, Miss MacKillian, you will show me the error of my ways.”

  She gasped at his effrontery. “I won’t apologize for my views, Mr. Houghton. I can’t abide gambling in any form.” She bobbed her head. “There. You’ve forced the truth from me.”

  “How commendable, Miss MacKillian,” Bart echoed her.

  “I brought Bart home because he wants to invest in our ranch and become a part owner.”

  Her mind spun in dazed amazement, and her fingers went numb. She couldn't believe it. This man—a stranger and professed gambler—a part owner of their ranch?

  What was her brother thinking?

  Bart glanced at Lindsay, and he touched the linen napkin to his mouth. He leaned toward Chad, offering, “I think it would be wise if I excused myself so y’all can discuss my partnership in private.”

  But Bart wasn’t just excusing himself from a sticky situation; Lindsay hadn’t missed the pointed message in his light blue eyes. It was obvious he was surprised and dismayed with Chad, too. Bart must have thought her brother had already explained the purpose of his visit. It made her angry to think Chad hadn’t told her. Why would he keep something so important to himself?

  Because he feared her reaction as much as she feared his when he learned his unwed sister was pregnant?

  And she’d been hopelessly naive. In her effort to appear ladylike, she’d focused her energies on the house, cooking, and laundry. She hadn’t asked about the ranch and how it was prospering. A mistake she vowed not to repeat. After all, half of the ranch belonged to her.

  “Let’s not be hasty, Bart,” Chad said, touching Bart’s arm. “Please, finish your meal. My sister and I will talk later.”

  Glancing in Lindsay’s direction again, Bart hesitated and then nodded. When he returned the napkin to his lap, he speared his first bite of meat.

  Lindsay watched him as he slowly chewed the half-cooked lamb. She’d wanted to serve a perfect meal. But when Bart swallowed the mutton with difficulty, followed by a deep drink of water, she shuddered and was embarrassed.

  They ate in silence for several minutes. Then, the peaceful interlude was broken by her brother’s knife and fork clattering on the rose-patterned china plate. He’d eaten his potatoes and vegetables, but his unconsumed portion of mutton lay on his plate like a silent reproach.

  Her brother gazed at her and lifted one eyebrow, disappointment etched on his features.

  Lindsay's momentary embarrassment evaporated when confronted by her brother’s attitude. Resentment burned in the pit of her stomach at his injustice, and she felt as if he was using the poorly-prepared leg of lamb to bludgeon her into accepting Bart’s partnership in the ranch.

  Faced with difficult circumstances, she recalled her Aunt Minnie’s advice as clearly as if she was standing there: ‘Maintain your ladylike demeanor in the face of adversity and no man can vanquish you.’

  Remembering her aunt’s words gave her courage, and she took several deep breaths, dispelling her anger. Returning her brother’s gaze, she smiled prettily while he tried to stare her down. And she managed to finish her mutton, by cutting it into tiny pieces, smiling all the while, between bites.

  Chad grunted and looked away.

  One down and one to go, she thought smugly.

  Wanting to know Bart’s reaction, she slanted her gaze at him. And she was secretly relieved to find he’d finished his lamb and everything else on his plate.

  Wiping his mouth with his napkin, Bart said, “Lovely meal, Miss MacKillian. I’m much obliged for your hospitality.”

  Despite her mixed feelings, a warm glow suffused her. She inclined her head and hoped she wasn’t blushing.

  Chad wiped his mouth, too, and half rose from his chair. “Bart, if you’d be kind enough to wait upon the porch with coffee or a drink, I would like to speak with my sister.”

  “My pleasure. I’ll take a cup of coffee, if it’s not too much trouble,” he replied, placing his napkin on the table and scraping back his chair.

  But before he could rise, there was a loud yelp.

  Minnie!

  Bart glanced down and cursed under his breath.

  Lindsay looked under the table at the same time Bart reached down to find her dog’s tail pinned between his chair leg and the table.

  “Minnie!” Lindsay cried out and leapt to her feet.

  Chad jumped to his feet, too, and roared, “You promised to lock her up!”

  “I thought I did, but sometimes, she worries the latch open with her nose.”

  “Well, use a damned padlock then!”

  Lindsay shot Chad a venomous look. Her brother didn’t like Minnie. It had been one of the many disappointments she’d faced when she returned home.

  She held out her arms and leaned down, crooning softly to coax the tiny dog. Bart had already freed her Maltese’s tail, thank heavens.

  Chad frowned and took a step around the side of the oval table, looking as if he’d like to drown her dog in the horse trough.

  Bart considered them both, advancing upon him, swinging his head back and forth, before he drawled, “Ambushed, and now I'm surrounded on both sides. I never realized how dangerous Langtry was.”

  Chad stopped abruptly and looked confused. It was obvious he couldn’t decide whether Bart was joking or not. Lindsay ignored the two men and scooped up her dog, feeding her a tiny piece of mutton from the platter.

  Bart smiled and patted Minnie’s fluffy, white topknot.

  But her brother wasn’t so easily deflected. He lunged for the dog and bellowed, “By God, what are you doing? Feeding that animal at the table like he’s a human?”

  “Minnie is a she, named after our Aunt Minerva,” she said.

  “I don’t care,” Chad replied. “I want her out of the dining room and back in her crate.”

  Lindsay hugged her dog close and frowned at her brother. But Bart forestalled Chad by gently lifting the Maltese from her arms and settling her in his lap. He reached across his clean plate and plucked another bite of mutton from the platter, feeding it to Minnie.

  “She’s a sweet little pup,” he said. “Where did you get her?”

  “Worthless bit of dog, not good for hunting or herding.” Chad groused and sat back down.

  Bart stroked Minnie’s soft fur and chuckled.

  The tension drained from Lindsay when she realized Bart, unlike her brother, liked her dog.

  “My Aunt Minerva has had Maltese dogs for a long time. Her husband owned a shipping fleet. He brought them back from the island of Malta,” she explained. “Their breed is ancient, going back thousands of years. Minnie is the last pup from the two dogs my aunt still has.”

  He nodded. “I’ve read about the breed. Like greyhounds, who the Egyptians bred, they are an ancient breed.” He lifted Minnie in his hands and looked her over. “Interesting, indeed.”

  “Yeah, that dog might be the Queen of Siam, for all I care. But what’s she good for?” Chad asked.

  “For companionship and comfort,” she said. “Our aunt gave her to me when I returned to Boston after Father died.”

  Chad lowered his head and grunted again, crossing his arms over his chest.

  “What happened to your father, Lindsay?” Bart asked, cradling Minnie in his arms.

  “He tried to ride a half-busted bronc.” She shrugged, but inside, she was still grieving. “The bronc threw him, and he broke his neck.”

  “My condolences.” He glanced at her and then Chad. “To you both.”

  “Thank you,” she and her brother answered.

  “You’ve been very gracious, Bart,” Chad said. “I appreciate your forbearance with this—my sister’s bizarre pet.”

  “Not so bizarre, lots of royalty and nobility have small dogs for companionship.” He glanced at Lindsay. “Aren’t they called ‘lap dogs?’”

  “Yes, that’s correct,” she said. Her initial animosity toward Bart was mel
ting, like a flake of snow in a Langtry winter. He’d asked all the right questions about Minnie, hadn’t been condescending or nasty, like her brother.

  “Lap dogs. Useless things.” Her brother snorted. “That’s about all they’re good for, to take up someone’s lap.”

  She trembled at her brother’s mean words. Why couldn’t he be more understanding, like Bart? Was this a sample of the reaction she’d get when she told him about her shameful condition?

  “Lindsay, could you please remove the animal and fetch Bart the coffee he requested,” Chad said. “I want to talk with you in private.”

  Lindsay raised her chin a notch. “I’ll take Minnie and get Bartholomew’s coffee right away.”

  Leaning forward, she stretched her arms out.

  Gently, Bart cupped the Maltese in his two big hands and lifted her into Lindsay’s waiting ones. Their fingers touched briefly, and she experienced the same jolt of heated current pass between them again. This time, instead of the sensation alarming her, exhilaration fizzed in her veins like a fine champagne. Tendrils of heat spread through her, and she knew her face was turning a deep red.

  With Minnie safely cradled in one arm, she turned away, not wanting the two men to see her blush. But before she’d taken more than a few steps to return Minnie to her crate, a thought occurred to her.

  “Could you excuse us for a moment? I need to take Minnie out. She’s house-broken, but she’s been locked up too long.”

  “What in the Sam Hill does that mean?” Chad asked.

  “That Minnie, if taken outside, will do her duty and not stain your carpets or foul her crate,” Bart said, glancing at Lindsay. “Am I right?”

  “Yes, thank you, that’s correct.” She turned to her brother and announced, “And tonight, she stays inside with me. Not in the barn.”

  Chad stared at her as if his eyes could have shot bullets.